


All that you are (A Sherlock / Queer Eye crossover)

by Raspberries_Heartbeat



Category: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baking, Developing Relationship, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Humor, Insecurity, John Watson is a Good Parent, John has a minor sexual crisis, M/M, Makeover, Parentlock, Pining, Rosie Watson is a national treasure, Self Confidence Issues, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock is a Good Parent, The Fab 5 are national treasures too, The Fab 5 fangirling over Sherlock, Vulnerability, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-03-08 17:59:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18899752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raspberries_Heartbeat/pseuds/Raspberries_Heartbeat
Summary: The Fab 5 gracefully arrange themselves on the couch, looking so drastically out of place between the case files and newspapers and general junk Sherlock keeps laying around that John has to fight the urge to giggle hysterically.**John's a loveable mess and the Fab 5 help him out.





	1. Day 1: A hot mess

**Author's Note:**

> If you already miss new QE episodes, I hope reading this fic makes you smile as much as it made me smile writing it.
> 
> UPDATE: It has been brought to my attention that my old title "Queer Eye: Johnlock edition" had already been taken up by another fic. Supporting other creators and valuing their creativity is important to me, this is why I changed my title.

The production team has waited three whole days. It’s almost a miracle at this point. A sunny day in London.

Everybody’s pretty fed up when they finally install the camera at the front of the Fab 5 van, but Tan absolutely insisted on waiting until the weather cleared up, claiming like this, they’d get the “most gorgeous shots” of his home country. Tan can be pretty persistent about certain things and nobody in their right minds would dare to disagree with him (Bobby, though, points out the fact that it’s kind of hilarious that they had to wait three days for the rain to stop).

 

The van finally cruises through the busy streets of London (Tan’s driving, for everyone’s safety and to Jonathan’s great disappointment). They all cheer excitedly for the camera, announcing the first episode of Queer Eye- London Edition. Karamo, casually chilling in the passenger seat and absolutely rocking a bomber jacket/button-down combo, then produces a tablet out of nowhere.

“Our victim this week is John Watson-“

“Cute!”, Jonathan pipes from the backseat, despite the fact that he hardly has enough information to make this judgement; but that’s not the point. Jonathan has the gift of finding something cute in everything.

“John’s 42, former army doctor and captain-“

“I love a man in uniform,” Antoni murmurs mostly to himself.

“Who now works at a local surgery and is a part-time blogger for his best friend Sherlock Holmes-“

Everybody in the car shrieks.

“THE Sherlock Holmes?!” Tan’s so excited, he almost runs over a granny at the zebra crossing (luckily, the camera didn’t catch that).

“Oh my God, he’s a celebrity,” Bobby’s fanning himself some air. “Wait, didn’t he like die?!”

Jonathan hits him on the arm, missing his face by mere inches. “Henny, that’s old news!! It totally was just a heroic fraud to dismantle a criminal organization while keeping his loved ones out of danger!! Uh, so mysterious!!”

“Ladies, keep your panties on,” Karamo laughs.

“Not wearing any,” Antoni murmurs, still mostly to himself. Nobody seems to be frazzled by the statement.

“So, anyway, John’s been nominated by his friend, DI Gregory Lestrade, because according to Greg, John’s life is a pretty big mess right now. Ever since his wife Mary has been shot, he’s struggling with adapting to his new role as a single parent- aw man, that’s really sad.”

Low whispers of agreement; the atmosphere in the car shifts momentarily, as they all reminiscent of how hard it must be to lose a loved one so unexpectedly.

“Greg’s hoping that the Fab 5 can help John to gain new confidence, so that he can face whatever comes his way like the wonderful person that he is-“

“Man, this Greg guy sounds like the sweetest person!” Everybody agrees heartily with Bobby.

“His daughter’s second birthday is coming up at the end of the week and John wants to throw a big party, although he hasn’t hosted any events in _years_.”

“Mission is pretty clear, I’d say,” Tan comments, while turning into Baker Street.

Karamo closes the tablet and turns so he looks at everyone: “Let’s make sure it’ll be the best party ever!”

Claps and a very enthusiastic “Yaaaaas, Queen!” follow.

 

They’re happily perched up at the front door, cameras and everything, ringing the door-bell like there’s no tomorrow. The door buzzes open a second later and cluttering can be heard by the time the Fab 5 plus entourage are climbing the seventeen stairs (Antoni up first, because he is like super-sporty) up to 221 B.

“I’m getting it, don’t bother, Sherlock!”

Bobby, Tan, and Jonathan simultaneously stop to clutch at each other, squealing. They talk over each other, overly excited: “Oh my God, they’re living together!” “How do I look?!” “I wanna touch his gorgeous hair!!!”

Karamo and Antoni roll their eyes fondly at their friend’s antics.

 

There’s some more cluttering and a low thud, before the door is pulled open to reveal a very disheveled looking John Watson. A John Watson, who very much wasn’t prepared for five random guys plus two cameras to be staring him in the face (he vaguely remembers Greg’s off-handed comment that he nominated him for a make-over show and he vaguely remembers reading and discussing the production’s letter with Sherlock). Still, he wasn’t prepared for them catching him thoroughly unprepared. He would have combed his hair had he known he would be filmed that morning. Or shaven. Or _showered_.

Before John can get a word in, they’re bullying their way into his living space in a big cluster, while he’s distracted by several bone-crushing hugs. Rosie- whom he had strapped against his chest out of convenience- blubbers happily at the intruders.

“You look scared, don’t be scared!” Karamo tries to soothe him.

It’s not working.

 

“Guys, don’t overwhelm him with the hugs, Brits aren’t used to it!” Tan laughs behind them.

John thinks to himself that he needs to sit down. But here he is, being hugged by, well. He will try to remember their names, he promises himself. Also, the bloke with the British accent has a point. He hasn’t been hugged this excessively in decades. He still tries to decide whether he likes it or not, when they’re all assembled around him in a circle.

 

“Your daughter is so cute!” Karamo bends down to Rosie’s eye-level and waves to her. The baby waves back and gurgles.

The Fab 5 melt into a fabulous goo.

“Rosie’s quite the charmer,” John says, his voice still holding a certain panicked edge to it. So, this make-over thing is happening _right now_.

Well.

Alright, then.

 

He remembers his manners.

“I’m sorry, you’ve caught me off guard, we were just-“

“Not cleaning, I presume,” Bobby states bluntly-and just like that, the floodgates are opened. Just like that, the Fab 5 go from ‘Hi, we’re nice and harmless’ to full on action mode.

 John has the decency to be low-key embarrassed. The flat _is_ kind of messy.

BUT Sherlock wrapped up a case only the night before and John has been navigating between early shifts, helping Sherlock as best as he could, and being a dad; so the flat isn’t really cluttered (alright. The _living-room_ is cluttered.), it’s just a little lived-in; he was about to clean it (at some time at some point), THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Of course, British sensibility keeps him from voicing any of those things. Instead he smiles a tight smile which he hopes comes off as polite.

 

Suddenly, they’re swarming out _everywhere_. Touching _everything_ (including his hair and jumper and _daughter_ ).

It’s… a lot.

John watches helplessly how their possessions get jostled about (if Sherlock realizes that they’re playing around with Billy the Skull, he will probably murder them) and commented on. The blonde guy (Bob…Bobby?) shouts visons about improved interior design to nobody (the camera, John presumes) while the athletic brunette (something with an ‘A’….) steals away to the kitchen.

 

Out of nowhere, the door to the bedroom (formerly known as ‘Sherlock’s room’. Upstairs bedroom is a nursery now. Sherlock’s room is the bedroom of the flat.  Sherlock rarely sleeps, so John gets the bed most nights. If Sherlock decides to sleep, John takes the couch.) swings open to reveal Sherlock Holmes in all of his early morning glory. His hair is ruffled, and the dressing-gown is pulled protectively around his body; his cheeks still glowing from sleep-warmth (not that John notices any of those things. Nope. Absolutely not.)

After a case, Sherlock usually sleeps up to 18 hours. He had mere seven so far. His face reflects extreme resentment about this fact.

Behind John, people begin to shout excitedly upon seeing his flat mate (something about touching “those curls, honey!!!”) and the doctor shoots his friend the most apologetic look he can muster.

Sherlock raises a mere eyebrow in return, rolls his eyes at the havoc running in his home, gently lifts Rosie (who had made grabby-hands at him the moment he showed up) out of the carrier, turns on his heel, and shuts the door right in John’s face.

John stares at the door. Rosie and Sherlock get along great; Sherlock spends a lot of time with her when no case is on (the evenings, when John returns from work and sees these two after a long day, are his favorite. Something about this kind of domesticity warms his heart).

It’s good that they get to catch up now after this long investigation, but John feels a little cross at both of them for abandoning him like that. To be at the mercy of five fabulous tornados.

 

The sound of screaming coming from the kitchen pulls him out of his mind.

Looks like they found the toes, then.

 

Antoni- as it is his habit- immediately pulls open the refrigerator door. He is delighted (animatedly talking to the camera) that there are two fridges in this house- “Surely an indicator of immense culinary experimentation”- when he encounters the toes.

 

John and the rest of the Fab 5 arrive at the doorway at the exact same time.

Antoni’s face has grown ashen and the poor guy looks like he might faint any minute. Karamo takes a precarious step forward, just to make sure.

As he points to the fridge, his fingers are trembling. “Blood. Pig head. Fucking _toes_.”

“What the hell!!!” “Gross!!!” “My design team is not touching that!!!”

While their voices shout over each other, John pats the poor lad’s hand and explains: “That’s the biohazard fridge. Experiments are vital to Sherlock’s line of work and sometimes they tend to be a bit grotesque. The food fridge is over here.”

It takes another ten minutes until Antoni re-gains his composure (and until somebody calms Jonathan down about the disappointment of not having been able to “touch those curls, honey!!!” and instead having to witness the “grossest thing ever”). When he does, he has enough gusto to criticize the barren state of the actual fridge (in total: milk, one carrot, Indian take-out leftovers, pickles). John’s not proud of it, so much so that he can’t disagree. It _is_ a sad sight.

 

‘Sad sight’ might be the theme of the day, John thinks to himself, when he watches his closet (still standing in Rosie’s nursery) being turned inside out. He didn’t even realize he owned this many poorly-fitting jumpers. While British Guy merrily throws everything to the floor, Blonde Guy engages him in conversation about the room. They hadn’t had the time to really make it homey, it’s practical, but not pretty. The guy ( _Bobby_ , John now remembers), places a reassuring hand on his shoulder and tells him they’re here to help with that. For the first time since his life has suddenly been invaded, John genuinely smiles. Bobby points that fact out, too, not unkindly.

John shrugs, not really used to being asked about his feelings (it feels… nice, if not a bit… vulnerable? If that makes sense?). “A proper nursery has been on my to-do list forever. But I’ve never gotten around to it (here, both Bobby and Tan look at him with so much kindness in their eyes, that John feels really touched all of a sudden although he doesn’t really understand why). It would make her so happy. And if Rosie’s happy, I’m happy.”

“Aw, that is so sweet. You’re such a good father!”

John didn’t think to receive such a genuine sentiment from a man who was currently throwing his clothes around, but here he is (John wouldn’t admit it to himself, but he really needed to hear that. Insecurity was his ever-present companion these days. It is nice to hear that he at least _appears to be_ a decent parent.)

“But your fashion sense is- I’m sorry to say that- absolutely ghastly. Look at this thing (here, he holds up an oatmeal-colored wool jumper John had gotten about ten years ago)- it is horrible!”

Horrible is a very strong word.

Sherlock had used “monstrosity” once.

They’re both overreacting, John thinks.

 

“They’re comfortable,” he defends himself weakly.

“Mate, nobody wants to have sex with you when you’re dressing like my grandpa!”

Okay, now. That was just harsh.

And presumptuous.

How dare this person assume things about his sex life?!

(Well, alright. He might have a point. Nobody had wanted to have sex with John in while, but he had _other things to worry about_ (thank you very much). And it has definitely nothing to do with his jumpers. Probably. Most likely?)

“And they’re so unfitting (here, Tan pinches the deep green jumper John’s wearing right now, that conveniently has bits of Indian take-out and baby drool all over it). You’re such an attractive man, you don’t have a reason to hide in those things.”

John frowns, trying to remember the last time somebody had called him attractive. What an absurd concept.

“What’s with that face? You don’t think you’re attractive?”

The doctor crosses his arms in front of his chest, suddenly feeling weirdly exposed.

The truth is, he doesn’t. Most days he just thinks he looks tired and old; with the bags under his eyes and the lines on his face. And the extra pudge around his middle he had gained over the years- not enough to worry or consider changing his lifestyle- but noticeable in comparison with his shape in his army days. He had been attractive, once. Then life happened.

 

“Not necessarily, no.”

Now they were both looking at him- so genuine and kind- that John wants to punch something. He shouldn’t let all of this get so much under his skin. He was doing this to _humor_ Greg, nothing more. He was far too gone at this point for actual help; his life was a fine mess and he had come to accept that.

Still, he can’t quite kill the small flicker of hope deep in his belly, when a warm hand settles on his shoulder and the British Guy murmurs quietly: “We’re here to help with that, too.”

 

They’re all gathered together in the living-room for the last segment they’ll need to shoot for today (So John has been told by a production assistant); the Fab 5 gracefully arranging themselves on the couch, looking so drastically out of place between the case files and news papers and general junk Sherlock keeps laying around that John has to fight the urge to giggle hysterically.

It’s enough that he’ll be portrayed as a sad old looser on a Netflix show, better not add ‘insane’ to the list.

John tries not to think about that, tries to ignore the cameras following his every move.

Why did he agree, again?

 

“So, tell us about the event you’ve got coming up.” Karamo places a warm hand on John’s arm just like he always does when he feels people radiating off nervous energy. It usually works wonders.

John stares at it a little bewildered.

All this touching.

He’s not used to that at all.

(It’s kind of nice, though. Invasive, but nice.)

 

John clears his throat. “Well, it’s Rosie’s second birthday. And since her first one kind of… fell under the radar (of murder and grief and so much bullshit. He doesn’t say that, but he has the sinking suspicion that these guys already know anyway. Still. Doesn’t mean he has to _say_ it, then), it’d be nice to celebrate it properly.”

Hair-Loving Guy claps his hands in enthusiastic approval. “Yes! A little princess only turns two once in her life! She deserves to party like the gorgeous queen she will become!”

John, despite everything, fights a small smile. Their enthusiasm about everything is so…. Overwhelming. Yet it’s genuine enough that he’s already starting to like them. Sherlock would be a tougher nut to knack, though. He suppresses a shudder and vows himself to intervene should any of them want to interact with Sherlock alone. He wasn’t ready for that kind of damage control.

 

“It’s been a while, though, hasn’t it?” Kitchen Guy asks with a sympathetic puppy dog expression which makes him look like a sad supermodel.

John scratches his neck. “I guess….” He trails off, remembering the last time they had guests over at 221B. It’s only been some years- the first and only Christmas party at 221B- but it feels like forever ago. He’s grown old, since then. In a sense, they both have (though it suits Sherlock better).

“Are you nervous?”

Is he?

He hadn’t thought much about it, to be honest.

He feels guilty for neglecting his daughter like that. The appropriate answer is, he _should_ be nervous with the flat in the disarray that it is in now and him in even more disarray and nearly no preparations done whatsoever.

Shit.

Now, he’s nervous.

Thank you, stupidly handsome super-model Kitchen Guy.

 

“I am,” he answers, feeling that they wouldn’t stop pushing if he hadn’t.  He has the feeling that this week was going to be an endless circle of him having to voice his emotions and them hugging it out. He isn’t so sure if he felt comforted by the prospect or horrified.

Apparently, everyone agrees that he should be nervous.

They lay out the game plan and say some motivational stuff, before the production assistant calls it a wrap. The guys now explain to him when he’ll be spending time with whom, starting tomorrow with Blonde Guy, who wants to start renovating the flat right after. They’d be staying in a hotel for two days until it’s done.

John consciously knows that this has been part of it, but he still feels kind of heavy when he closes the door behind the five fabulous tornados.

His life is about to be turned upside-down.

He’s not sure if he’s ready.

 

When he knocks lightly at Sherlock’s door and finds both him and Rosie engaged in animated “conversation” about the pop-up animal book his daughter (and Sherlock) adore beyond imagination, he has to grin.

He’s doing it for Rosie, too.

After all, she’s getting a more child-proof flat, an actual nursery, and a pretty awesome birthday party out of this whole thing.

So what if her dad’s making a fool of himself on the internet?

It’s worth it, he tells himself.


	2. A tired revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good luck,” he murmurs in John’s general direction, his rich baritone laced with amusement. 
> 
> “Thanks for deserting me, git,” the doctor replies just as quietly, but the insult is lost in a smile. Sherlock does that to him, these days.

The next day, John comes prepared.

Not only has he showered, oh no, he also donned on the least hideous (Sherlock’s opinion) jumper he owns.

He tells himself it’s not because he wants to impress these guys he barely knows. Sherlock only watches him over the rim of his tea cup with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

When the Fab 5 plus two camera teams enter this time, he doesn’t even flinch and lets himself be wrapped into several hugs obediently. They radiate the same kind of unwavering energy despite the fact that it’s early in the morning, which John is slightly jealous of. He’s never been a big morning person.

Rosie is, though, so she matches them in enthusiasm. She gurgles and waves at each of them, while they swarm around her like he’s the most precious thing in the room (which… she is). John thought Sherlock might vanish mysteriously as soon as they entered the flat (through the window to avoid an encounter, presumably) yet he stays right where he is, sipping his tea and pretending to read an article in a scientific journal, while deducing their houseguests quietly.

 

With all of the fussing over Rosie, they don’t notice him at first. When they do, it’s really Jonathan, and he almost squeals. Karamo notices the gleam in his friend’s eyes and know that now, Jonny’s a man on a mission.

“My god, the great Sherlock Holmes, it’s such a pleasure Mister detective Sir- may I-“

“You may not.”

Sherlock gives him one of his “polite smiles” (that, John has told him on multiple occasions, only comes off as cold and murderous. He secretly thinks Sherlock likes it that way), deflating Jonathan’s attempts to “touch those curls, henny!”.

The flock moves from Rosie to Sherlock, a tumble of compliments and exclamations of excitement. Karamo tries to engage Sherlock in one of this patented “So tell me about your friend”- conversations, but Sherlock dodges it smoothly. Instead, he holds John’s gaze steadily and quirks his lips into the shadow of a smirk, which never fails to make John a teeny-tiny bit flustered (it’s just that he’s never seen Sherlock look at anyone else that way before. It’s something special and uniquely them. That shouldn’t make him flustered, though, but he can’t help himself). John pretends to be unaffected and feeds some more oatmeal to Rosie. Kitchen Guy is the only one not fussing over Sherlock and fixes him with a slightly surprised look that slowly morphs into a grin.

He must have noticed, then.

That only makes John _more_ flustered.

 

In the next second, Sherlock stands (interrupting British Guy mid-sentence) and announces his departure to the morgue.

He leans down to give Rosie a kiss on the forehead. John _tries_ not to watch him fondly but fails. Years have gone by where Sherlock declared himself an untouchable sociopath and now he was throwing good-bye kisses at little baby girls, while letting said baby-girls tuck at his curls happily. (John thought he heard a “oh, so SHE gets to touch them,” muttered under a breath, but maybe he was just imagining things.)

“Good luck,” he murmurs in John’s general direction, his rich baritone laced with amusement.

“Thanks for deserting me, git,” the doctor replies just as quietly, but the insult is lost in a smile. Sherlock does that to him, these days.

He decides not to think about it too much.

Better to make his whole mess of a life not more complicated than it already is.

Right.

Back to business.

**

Blonde Guy… Bobby (ha!) talks to him about interior design. John’s not an expert and he tries his best to follow, but as the implications of what they’re about to do dawn on him, he finds it harder and harder to pay attention.

He finds it easy to answer questions about Rosie’s nursery, things like what colors and flowers she likes. When the topic switches to the more lived-in areas, John gets hung up on memories. Practically ever corner in 221B is riddled with them- some good, some even fantastic, some devastating, some down-right anguishing. It’s like his whole life after the war has played out in this flat.

He feels his throat close up a bit.

Bugger.

He didn’t think he’d be emotional over interior design.

 

Bobby, ever the attentive one, notices.

“We’ll take a small break,” he tells the camera team, who shrugs and busies itself with getting some footage of Karamo and Jonathan playing with Rosie.

“Everything okay? I know it’s a lot to take in. “

John feels like a right idiot for making this guy concerned, when all he does is trying to be nice to him and improve his life. He shouldn’t make this hard, it’s a fucking blessing as it is. The flat is not even near child-proof and he should be fucking worshipping the ground where this person walks on for lifting this weight off his shoulders.

Still, his throat closes up.

This is the only home he has known since after the war.

 

“I’m fine, please don’t worry. It’s just… a lot of memories, you know?”

Bobby smiles one of his soft smiles that lights his face up like sunshine.

“A home is the most treasured space of memory we have. I’m not here to change this. All your precious possessions will remain right where they are, I’m just here to upgrade the living-conditions to hopefully improve the living-quality of your little household.”

John really doesn’t know how to handle all this genuine positive emotion directed his way. He really, _really_ doesn’t.

 

Bobby saves him: “On that note, let’s talk bedroom.” He wiggles his eyebrows and Jonathan “whooo”s from his lounging spot on the couch. John can’t keep the grin off his face at their implications. He doesn’t see something like that happen in the near future, but it’s a nice thought, after all.

“I’ve noticed there is only one, what’s up with that?”

“Sherlock rarely sleeps and my old bedroom is Rosie’s room now. On nights where he does need to sleep, I’m taking the couch.”

Bobby eyes the couch with Jonathan donned on it and sighs.

“First, no more couch sleeping. That is suicide for your back.” John _knows_ that. He is a doctor after all. It’s not worth the comment, though.

“Second, how do you feel about sharing?”

“The room’s not really big enough for two beds…”

“I meant sharing a bed.”

Jonathan practically squeals from the couch. He loves a good sexy bed-sharing arrangement, after all. He says as much. John looks between him and Bobby like somehow he hasn’t gotten an inside joke.

 

“I’m not gay.”

Some of the sunshine vanishes out of Bobby’s expression. “I wasn’t implying.”

“I, uh, I mean-“

“Listen, I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life. You don’t _have to_ share. At the very least you’ll get a king-sized bed out of it, so everybody wins.”

John can’t really argue with that, but it still somehow feels like a defeat.

When he passes Hair Guy- Jonathan, he reminds himself- the usually bubbly man glances at him thoughtfully. “There’s no shame in being whatever you are, darling. All that toxic heterosexuality will only make you unhappy.”

 In the deepest darkest corner of his heart, John realizes he might have a point.

**

His own words still ring in his ears when he meets British Guy- Tan, he’s really getting good at their names- at their car _. I’m not gay_. Did he always sound like such an insensitive prick when he said that? He did never notice. Without wanting to, he imagines that he might have hurt someone’s feelings with throwing this sentence around so carelessly (he prays that he didn’t offend Jonathan or Bobby- they’re helping him, after all).

He only says it around Sherlock, though. Another, far worse, thought enters his mind: What if he hurt _Sherlock’s_ feelings with it? His friend could be gay, after all. John doesn’t really know (and realizes he might be the worst best friend in the history of best friends) and now he can’t stop thinking about it.

“You’re quiet,” Tan notes, while casually sipping his Starbucks latte and driving them to a shop John isn’t familiar with.

There’s no camera installed at the front of the car, so John feels a little more at ease. “I guess I’m working through some stuff right now.”

“I hear you, mate. From what we’ve heard your life has been kind of a shit show, pardon my choice of words.”

“There are some highlights,” John jokes to deflate the empty feeling he gets in his chest when all the awful stuff that has happened in the last years catches up with him. Being shot and PTSD, loosing Sherlock and loosing Mary and somehow loosing himself along the way.

 

Tan senses his uncomfortableness with the topic and decides to leave it for the moment. “Yeah? Tell me about it,” he encourages instead.

John is happy for the momentary distraction from his gloomy thoughts and spends the rest of the drive telling Tan about some of the funny stories that have happened to him and Sherlock (and Rosie) over the years. He feels at ease around the other man, a feeling that doesn’t come easy to him.

Tan listens and hums at appropriate times, pleasantly surprised to get John out of his shell a bit. He notices how the man’s eyes light up whenever he talks about his best friend and how the worry-lines on his forehead even out when he talks about his daughter. It’s blatantly obvious how much he cares about them both and Tan suspects there might be a teeny-tiny crush situation going on, which he definitely needs to discuss with the boys later.

But first, it’s time to up this poor soul’s wardrobe game.

 

John stands in front of a well-lit mirror and gapes at himself.

It’s well into the fifth outfit they tried out and he looks handsome in. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.

It’s nothing short of a miracle.

The colors bring out his eyes and the tone of his skin, the cuts compliment his body, the styles take at least ten years off of him.

Tan catches his eyes in the mirror while he drapes a night blue bomber-jacket over the marine-colored jumper (“Because jumpers can be your friends, just not the sad specimens living in your closet”) and smiles approvingly at John’s obvious excitement.

“See, there’s no need to dress like you’re eighty. You’re a man in his best years and _now_ you look it!”

John is too astonished about all of this to pretend he’s humble about the way he looks right now. Because, damn, he looks _really handsome_. And he feels good, too. Better, in fact, then he had in months. He tells Tan as much.

The man claps him on the back approvingly. “It’s because you _are_ an attractive man, mate. If I wasn’t married, I’d totally tap that!”

John doesn’t know why, but he feels flustered and giddy at the compliment. Tan is a drop-dead gorgeous man, himself, yet somehow the approving words feel genuine. Like he’s not just saying that.

Which, wow.

“Really? You’d ask me out?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

He’s not gay, but-

He stops the train of though right there. Why deflate the nice atmosphere with weirdly insecure thoughts about his sexuality?

He feels good about himself for the first time since in forever, he’s not going to ruin this over a sexual crisis.

Nope.

Not happening.

 

“I’m sure Sherlock will love it, too,” Tan remarks with an air of pretense nonchalance, when they’re back in the car. He doesn’t miss the slight flush John quickly tries to hide under his collar and smirks to himself.

They definitely have to discuss this crush-situation.

**

John stares at the ceiling of the hotel room, a quiet simmer of excitement still bubbling around in his stomach. His filming had been finished after the shopping trip and the Fab 5 were busy with their respective interview recordings scheduled for the day.

John rather enjoyed the half a day off, picking Rosie up from Mrs. Hudson’s and taking her to the park; in high spirits as he was, indulging her every wish. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, unsurprisingly, but slipped into the hotel room quietly out of nowhere just in time for Rosie’s bedtime routine.

 

After Rosie is fast asleep and Sherlock excuses himself to take a shower, John is left alone once more with his thoughts about the day. Even though the shopping trip happened hours ago, he still feels the exhilarating rush of confidence deep within him.

It had been a long time since he felt this good about himself.

John touches the scar with his palm. He can’t see it currently because he wears his old trusty sleep t-shirt, but he knows it’s there.

He’s had had troubles to feel attractive, to feel desirable, ever since he got shot. His chest, formerly one of his best assets with his defined tone of muscle and broad shoulders, became something he hid. He hadn’t taken off his shirt when sleeping with his countless post-war girlfriends.

Never.

Not even with Mary.

(He didn’t even let Sherlock see it.)

But right now, it feels like it wouldn’t even matter. Tan knew it was there (because John told him, although spared him the less than pretty details) and yet he still told him that he found him physically attractive. Like the blotchy scar-tissue around his shoulder doesn’t define his sex appeal as a person.

John wanders around the room with a sort of antsy restless energy, buzzing pleasantly through his veins.

He almost had forgotten how it felt to be desirable.

 

A short while later, John was laying on the queen-sized hotel bed (he had the suspicion that Bobby might have something to do with the fact that they were in a single bed room), listening to Rosie’s sleepy snuffles from the crib by the window and Sherlock’s shuffling in the small bathroom. Naturally, he freaks out about this. It was kind of presumptions of them to believe that they- two grown men, best friends- wouldn’t have a problem sharing a bed.

They didn’t know _anything_ about them.

Not the important stuff, anyway (yet, John couldn’t shake the though that he might be very mistaken here).

So far, Sherlock didn’t even comment on the bed-situation. His nonchalance made John feel silly for being so touchy about it with Bobby.

Perhaps, it wasn’t that much of a deal as he made it out to be.

After all, it didn’t have to _mean_ anything.

 

But it could.

Oh bugger, here we go.

This isn’t a sexual crisis, John sternly tells himself. It is a ridiculous thing to have a crisis over _a bed_.

Then again, it’s much more than that.

It’s a crisis over the whole “I’m not gay” thing, which feels like an uncalled-for defense mechanism the more he thinks about it. Defending him against what, exactly?

It just is something he had always said. And now it comes out almost like a mechanical response. Like the words don’t actually mean anything beside their sound.

Maybe they really don’t.

After all, what is the harm in people assuming that he was gay? Bi? In any way sexually attracted to men?

It wasn’t even an evaluation of anything regarding his character. It was just an assumption about with whom he’d like to share his bed with.

 _Sherlock, presumably_ , supplies his treacherous brain very unhelpfully.

 

He groans quietly, and Sherlock’s emergence from the bathroom interrupts that dangerous spiral he’s about to fall into.

His friend just looks at him with an arched eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. John’s already used to the evenings where Sherlock is mostly non-verbal, and the friendly silence isn’t unwelcomed today. It settles the loud thoughts in John’s head.

As if he deduced the source of John’s chaotic mind, Sherlock settles into the big armchair next to the crib with a thick book and his discreet reading lamp. As if on second thought, he reaches into his bag again and pulls out Billy the Skull, setting him on the window-still. John fights the urge to roll his eyes affectionately. Of course, Sherlock “rescued” his precious companion from Bobby’s design team. It was a very Sherlock thing to do.

They hold a silent conversations solely through their actions. It’s nothing unusual, yet somehow, with all the little things John has noticed today thanks to the Fab 5, it feels much more intimate.

Like it _means_ something that they can understand each other without saying a word.

 

John realizes that now, he thinks more about his own feelings than he had in actual years. And talks more about them, too. He had always lived by the mantra that it was no use to bother others with his own insecurity and vulnerability. That he had to be the strong one, always, because somebody had to be.

With every moment passing when his life was invaded and turned upside down, he felt his confidence in this mantra slip. Only just now he came to fully acknowledge, that Greg might have a massive point. He might need the help of the Fab 5 more than he initially anticipated.

It was nice to allow himself to feel again.

Really nice.

 

When John drops off a final kiss against Rosie’s temple, Sherlock looks up from his book to watch his two Watsons. Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments.

“You look happy,” Sherlock remarks; his voice scratchy from the lack of use. It’s the first time John has heard it since this morning, and he shivers involuntarily.

He tries to overplay the thing he suddenly feels with humor: “I’m pleased to inform you that we have found suitable replacements for my jumpers.” After a heartbeat he adds “And they’re _hot_ ,” because he just can’t stop himself.

He doesn’t really know why he said that, why he presumed that Sherlock should be interested in the attractiveness-level of his clothing, but the smirk he gets in reply is strangely rewarding and grounding at the same time.

“Hotter than the woolen monstrosities? Impossible.”

John knows it’s a joke, but if he really, really wanted to, he could read something into it. He doesn’t, but he has to avert his eyes from Sherlock’s face. That look he sees on it makes it harder for him to ignore the flush of something deep in his belly at the prospect of Sherlock finding _him_ attractive.

He had never thought about that before.

 

And now, as he climbs into bed and buries himself deep in the covers, his back turned to Sherlock in an attempt to hide all of his sudden emotions from his friend’s deducting glance; now _he can’t stop thinking about it_.

 

Right on the brink of consciousness, John repeats some facts he can be sure of:

1.) Sherlock is an attractive man.

2.) Sherlock is also intelligent and funny and surprisingly sweet.

3.) Sherlock is raising his child with him, not even once complaining about it.

4.) Sherlock is, without a doubt, the best guy that John knows.

5.) If John should ever fall in love with a man, it would be Sherlock.

 

And maybe… just maybe… it already is Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, whooo! Did you like it?


	3. A step in the right direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now Sherlock looks at him, with a small storm brewing in his eyes, but it’s not threatening- only wild and powerful, making them glow; almost radiant.
> 
> 'He looks at you like there’s no one else in the room,' John’s flush returns with a vengeance when he remembers Antoni’s words.

“I’m being really polite and gentle about this now, but your kitchen was a disaster.”

John’s quiet laugh feels warm and familiar against the idle sound of their knives scraping against the cutting boards.

He’s in high spirits this morning, so he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about Antoni’s (although he will always be stupidly handsome super-model Kitchen guy in his mind) straightforward observation.

 

Waking up with Sherlock in the room does wonders for his mood. Something about the fact that the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Sherlock bouncing Rosie, the morning light catching both of their curls made him indescribable happy (he could get used to this).

He tries not to dwell too much on why this might be the case, not with Antoni there with him; Antoni who saw him getting flustered when Sherlock smirked at him yesterday. No need to feed into the fantasy…

 

They’re trying out a cake recipe for Rosie’s party. John has never produced a single edible baked good in his life, so he managed to persuade Antoni that he needed assistance in that regard much more than with cooking.

John could cook (fairly well if he said so himself). Most of the time, take-out was just easier considering their fast-paced lifestyle. He obediently listens to Antoni’s gentle chiding about setting an example for healthy nutrition while carefully mixing the chopped-up berries with the already prepared whipped-cream.

This looks very good so far and the process up to this point had been simple enough that John feels confident in his ability to reproduce it. But then again, that might be an aftereffect from the confidence-boost he has received yesterday.

How silly to think that some clothes could brighten his self-perception so drastically, but then again, he even smiled at himself in the mirror this morning; despite the belly and the grey hair and the dark circles around his eyes.

The warm smell of self-made sponge cake wavers through Mrs. Hudson’s small flat. Their landlady had offered her kitchen as the set for Antoni’s food segment and had puttered around nearby ever since, presumable to shower in Antoni’s overflowing charm. The scene is so domestic and homey (especially now, when Mrs. Hudson makes some tea “as a refreshment for your hardworking boys” and Antoni gushes over antique tea-set while they take a break from filming while the cake is baking) and John catches himself wishing Sherlock and Rosie were there with them. Sherlock had taken on babysitting duty this morning, off with Rosie to god-knows-where doing god-knows-what. John indulges in a small private fantasy that they’d just come rushing in the door and join the merry baking-round. It’s enough to make him smile and flush and he quickly tries to overplay it with a sip of tea.

He had always thought about Sherlock from time to time, in a way considerably different than one would usually think about one’s best friend but it isn’t until the Fab 5 cheerfully forced their way into his life that these thoughts become more refined and prominent in his mind.

He doesn’t really know whether it’s a good thing or a bloody complicated thing (considering Sherlock is Sherlock and John doesn’t even know if he’d be interested in any type of relationship whatsoever), but he has to admit it’s a thing that makes him happy thinking about.

 

“So, Sherlock,” Antoni casually starts, and John almost drops his cup. He hurriedly tries to overplay his sudden flustered state (Antoni’s not buying the bullshit he’s selling, though) while wondering if Antoni somehow is a mind-reader, too.

“What about him?” he asks airy, hoping that the squeak in his voice is just a trick of his own imagination.

All he gets as an answer is a delicate arched eyebrow, that somehow so much reminds him of the consulting detective in question that he has to suppress the urge to snort hysterically.

“C’mon now. I know some good old pining when I see it.”

“I’m not-“

And here he stops himself, doesn’t allow the automatic response to roll off his tongue. Instead, he finishes with “pining” which sounds lame and unconvincing even to his own ears.

“Listen, I get it. Despite what the Netflix tagline might suggest, you don’t have to listen to anything we advise you. It’s your life and it’s about what makes you happy-“ here, he smiles at John brightly and John feels the irrational desire to blurt out that it feels like _they know him_ very well. He doesn’t, naturally.

“But at the very least, humor me. That guy is absolutely gorgeous and absolutely dangerous, which is- to quote Jonathan here- ‘like so hot’. And _he_ looks at _you_ like there’s no one else in the room. You can’t tell me that this attention doesn’t affect you at all.”

Antoni winks at him playfully, and in another scenario,  John might have thought the younger man was flirting with him. But, now that he became attuned to the Fab 5’s mannerisms, he just knows that’s how they are.

“Doesn’t matter if you’re straight, gay, bi, or anything in between (Here, John starts to feel really bad for being so touchy about his sexuality with Bobby. Without a doubt, he must have told the other guys and he can’t help wondering if they secretly think less of him now) you’re not blind.”

 

It is tempting to talk to Antoni about his maybe crush on Sherlock (which, he has to admit, definitely exists) in the comfort of Mrs. Hudson’s cozy kitchen. Instead, he blurts out: “I didn’t mean to upset Bobby yesterday.”

Antoni regards him carefully for a minute. “You didn’t upset him. We get that a lot, it comes as a risk with the job, so to speak. But… we worry that you might make yourself unhappy when you cling too tightly to a concept of what your sexuality is supposed to be. And if that gets in your way of being truly happy, maybe it’s time to let go of the things holding you back.”

John stays silent because he doesn’t really know what to say. All of his life he had assumed (and other people assumed for him) that all he really needed in life was a happy marriage with a beautiful wife and fantastic kids.

But now, decades later, he is a widower single-parenting a baby with his best friend.

And he is _happy_ about it.

 

His life is a complicated mess, but most of the time he’s really, really happy about it. About Rosie. About Sherlock. Life is… good. For both of them. Even without Mary. This, here, he realizes, doesn’t feel nearly as anguishing as when Sherlock had been gone. Without Sherlock, John had been _dead_ inside. Without Mary, he could get by. Even Rosie could by, even if it was tragic and unfair that she had to.

He couldn’t imagine his life without Sherlock. Couldn’t imagine being truly alive when Sherlock wasn’t with him. Losing Sherlock… he doesn’t even want to think about it. Not when it’s like this. When everything is so…so…

 

“I’m happy with Sherlock,” he hears himself say. “Being with him is like… being alive. When I lost him, it was like loosing myself. I didn’t know how to… go on. I’m just… it’s the best thing that has happened to me, having him back. Aside from Rosie, naturally. It’s awful to say I’m happy because my wife is dead but… but I am.”

It’s the first instance he ever addressed those feelings out loud and they lift off his chest like a burden that has been sitting on it for years. The moment he utters them he becomes strangely choked-up, like saying them adds a reality to them that hadn’t been there before.

“You’re not awful for being happy. You’re allowed to live,” Antoni speaks gently, his own voice sounding a little bit wet. John’s glad they don’t have any of this on camera. It feels much too personal, much too intimate to be broadcasted all over the internet.

 

“Can I give you a hug?” Antoni asks and wraps John in his arms the moment he gets consent to do so. “Usually, Karamo gets all the tear-jerking stuff, he’s going to be so jealous,” the younger man jokes to lighten the mood. John chuckles against his shoulder (he’s really getting used to all this casual physical contact and already makes plans how to incorporate it into his day-to-day life.)

In that very moment, not only Mrs. Hudson re-enters the kitchen, she also has Sherlock and Rosie in tow (it’s like a scene from a really bad romantic comedy, John thinks to himself).

 

He hadn’t heard them enter the flat and spends thirty seconds to panic over the fact that Sherlock might have heard the whole thing (which was, all things considered, really not that big of a deal, but _for John_ it was). Antoni, bless him, just continues the hug unbothered by their surroundings, and only lets go when the timer for the oven goes off ten seconds later.

“Well, that’s our call!” he announces cheerily and busying himself with some oven-gloves, while the camera team rushes back over. Rosie is delighted at the attention Antoni directs her way as soon as the cake is out of the oven; cooing at her and showing her all the different yummy fruits that will go on her very special birthday cake.

John’s and Sherlock’s eyes meet briefly, and John thinks he saw a flicker of something in them, but that might have just been a trick of the light.

**

During their drive to some unknown destination, Karamo engages John in light small talk about his time in the army, marriage, and parenthood. More self-conscious about the camera casually sitting at the dashboard, John gives truthful but slightly less emotional answers than he had when he and Antoni talked about Sherlock. It mostly boils down to the army being hard but his job as a doctor being worth it, marriage having been hard but worth the experience (he carefully emits the part where Mary shot Sherlock), and parenthood being hard, but Rosie making it all worth it.

Talking with another parent about the struggles he faces settles John’s anxiety about the whole thing a tiny little bit. He had, time and time again, vowed himself to talk with Greg about it- because Greg isn’t only single-handedly the best father John knows, but also his best mate- but had never brought up the courage to do so. It’s easier when the other person doesn’t know the pre-parenthood you. Paradoxically, he feels like Greg knows him almost too well, that he can’t really open up to him about his insecurities. He tells Karamo as much and the culture expert wholeheartedly agrees, before smiling to himself.

 

Karamo’s surprise turned out to be a big one indeed. Somehow, he managed to dig a group of other fathers out of nowhere, who apparently meet regularly to either have playdates or- as Karma calls it- “Daddy Dates”, with planned activities like bowling or soccer. It’s one of those “Daddy Dates” that they crash, joining the guys for a few games of (slightly toned-down, because war injury and everything) rugby matches.

By the two-hour mark, John feels sweaty, exhausted, and exhilarated.

He hadn’t played rugby since medical school and something about it, and something about hanging around with people his age who share experiences with him is very refreshing and rewarding. It’s surprisingly easy talking to the other dads once they got over the first awkwardness (Karamo’s easy-going nature helped a lot with that, too) and John finds himself being more open and honest about his worries as a single-father than he can ever imagine being with any of his close friends. It’s healing to hear the stories of the other guys, to see that there is so much that they share, and that he is not alone in his fears. He’s not the only single father, he’s not the only doctor- hell- he’s not even the only veteran. Something about connecting with these guys he barely knows through common ground makes him feel so much less alone. He hadn’t realized how alone he had felt before.

John can’t really describe how a game of rugby, a couple of refreshments, and snippets of conversations has managed to give him back some of the confidence he thought he had lost since the army. He feels good and capable and strong- and can’t stop telling Karamo this all the way back to the hotel.

 

The other man just smiles and listens; in all his short time with John Watson he had never heard the man talking so freely and animatedly as he is now. Karamo thinks idly to himself about just how much is gained when we tear down the walls we built around ourselves.

And how beautiful it is to see John Watson without his walls as the proud, strong, amazing father that he is.

**

John is, in fact, _still_ talking about it, while he rocks Rosie to sleep in his arms, bouncing her ever so often. Today has been a fantastic day for him. He feels even better than he had after yesterday, although the looming truth of his obvious attraction to Sherlock is still a big question mark in the back of his mind.

Just because he actually came to terms with it, doesn’t mean that Sherlock would. _If_ he was to tell him. Which… he doesn’t know if that would be a smart move. It could have disastrous consequences (or it could have really great consequences).

 

Either way, excited energy buzzes around in his system and radiates off him while he talks to Sherlock about his day (he just can’t stop talking; a sheer contrast to yesterday’s quietness. But he feels different today; differently happy).

“Karamo had the idea to invite some of the guys to Rosie’s party. Maybe she could make some friends, can you imagine that? I bet she’d love some friends!”

Sherlock, who had his nose buried in some cold case files he presumably nicked from Greg’s office at some point during the day, looks up briefly and gives him one of his rare genuine smiles; the one that John likes best because his eyes crinkle around the edges good-naturedly when he does it.

“And presuming she makes some friends we can start going to those playdates. And-“ here he hesitates for the first time in well over an hour, breathing still fast and labored from talking so much for so long. He flushes a little bit. He can’t remember the last time he talked so much with Sherlock while being sober. He’s usually the quiet type.

“And you could come along. I bet she’d love that, too.”

 

Sherlock abruptly stops scanning the file and looks up at John with a calculating gaze. John knows he’s being discreetly deduced but has no idea what exactly Sherlock is looking for.

“I’m not sure,” he finally says, tone carefully neutral. “As I’ve gathered, it’s supposed to be an occasion solely reserved for the children’s caretakers. I don’t want to impose myself upon it.”

John just stares at him for a full minute. Rosie blows a small bubble of spit in her sleep. Somewhere, a clock is ticking. John just keeps staring at Sherlock. The detective clears his throat and looks away, clearly confused by the unreadable emotions on John’s face. While Sherlock’s emotional intelligence has improved drastically ever since they started taking care of Rosie, John knows he still struggles with acknowledging his own feelings and recognizing them in others.

Remembering this, John finally speaks: “You’re daft.”

There is a familiar sneer forming on Sherlock’s face; the one he usually wears when he’s completely puzzled by others and angry at himself for not understanding them. “I’m a genius, but that’s hardly the point.”

 

John sighs fondly to himself and shakes his head at the impossible man that is Sherlock Holmes. How somebody could be so unbelievably smart and so unbelievably stupid at the same time, John would never know.

He places Rosie in her crib and goes to sit on the armrest of the arm-chair Sherlock has quickly claimed as his favorite spot in the hotel room.

“Sherlock. You _are_ her caretaker. We’re in this together. If I’m going, then you’re going, too.”

He bumps Sherlock’s shoulder lightly with his own, unsure of how much physical contact is welcomed right now. It’s hard to say these days: Sherlock used to surround himself with an air of cold untouchability, but after months of co-parenting it almost seems like Sherlock wants to be near him. There are these lingering touches in the morning or late at night, when John snores off on the couch or prepares tea for them both; these touches on the back of his neck or the crook of his arm paired with that twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes that he never quite knows how to place.

He slowly gets an idea what it might mean. But then again, maybe that’s just wishful thinking. You never know with a man as unfathomable as Sherlock Holmes.

 

And now Sherlock looks at him, with a small storm brewing in his eyes, but it’s not threatening- only wild and powerful, making them glow; almost radiant.

 _He looks at you like there’s no one else in the room_.

John’s flush returns with a vengeance when he remembers Antoni’s words. It’s true, the attention those eyes can command so easily is dazzling. He feels light-headed. For the very first time, he allows himself to be pulled in from these eyes, no longer caring what the sudden eruption of nervous tingles in his stomach might imply. No longer caring what Sherlock might see. What he might show him.

He doesn’t want to make himself unhappy over the concept of normative heterosexuality. He wants… he wants this.

 

“There’ll only be one bed in the flat.” Sherlock’s voice surprises him, he must have zoned out a little (how very cliché). How Sherlock guessed that, John would never know (he sure as hell didn’t tell him), but in hindsight he should have known better. Sherlock might have deduced it from looking at Bobby’s left shoelace or something equally hysterical.

John self-consciously bites his lower lip. “Yeah,” he admits, not sure if it’s a segway into one of Sherlock’s infamous rants, or if he actually doesn’t care about it at all. Or if he’s aware of the implication lying between the lines of this simple statement. “I’m sorry I didn’t-“

“You’re happy that you’re with me.”

John almost does a double-take. So, he _had_ heard, this morning. Despite all the self-prepping about being accepting of his attraction to Sherlock, panic rises in John’s stomach.

Maybe he’s moving this along too fast.

Maybe they’re not ready.

Maybe they’ll never be ready.

Maybe there is nothing to be ready for; maybe he and the Fab 5 are just imagining things.

Maybe Sherlock hasn’t changed as much as he thought; maybe Sherlock just doesn’t _want_ him. Like that. Or like anything, really.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

All the air in his lungs rushes out in a swift exhale and John feels light-headed again for the entirely wrong reasons. Maybe he’s about to fuck everything up. He rises from his sitting position and toys with the thought to escape from the hotel room never to return again.

 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry about the whole ‘I’m not gay’-thing. There’s…. I haven’ been very honest to myself about that. Or to you-“

“Now don’t you be daft. I’ve deduced that ages ago.”

….

…

..

RUDE.

“Well, thanks a lot for enlightening me about it.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk into a lopsided smile. John sort of wants to slap him (or kiss him… maybe both, in that order). “Not my division.”

“You’re a tit, do you know that?”

“Such language in front of an innocent child.”

 

“What doesn’t make sense, then?” John snaps irritated. How dare Sherlock be so blasé about the whole thing?! It had been a big deal for John to admit it to himself and an even bigger deal to talk to Sherlock about it. And he just treated it like it was basically old news to him. He feels tempted to slip into a small temper tantrum, when he sees the look on Sherlock’s face.

Everything stops for a moment.

 

And then, John _gets_ it.

He gets it because he knows this look so well, and he knows how this look feels like. He’s no stranger to self-doubt and has, over the years, become attuned to it when Sherlock allowed him to glimpse past his armor of arrogance and intellect.

It’s hard to voice everything that’s whirling around in his mind right now; words don’t seem sufficient for the overflow of emotion that’s happening in his heart. And maybe it would be too soon. Maybe he should figure this out more.

Maybe he shouldn’t presume so easily that he’s in love with Sherlock or that Sherlock might be…

There are so many things he doesn’t say right now.

Instead, he just says, very softly, “Now don’t you be daft.”

 

And then he stands and trots to the bathroom, giddy and slightly nauseous in the prospect of new possibilities.

But it’s late. And they’ve had more than enough emotional upheaval for the day. There’s no rush with these things. Especially since he has no idea what the hell they’re doing right now; what even _this_ between them is- he doesn’t know anything.

Only that he’s happy with Sherlock.

And for the moment, that’s more than enough.

 

So, they don’t talk about it.

Instead, John pats the right side of the bed gently once he’s climbed under the covers. Sherlock stares at him with the storm still raging in his eyes. But the twinkle is there, too. John can’t keep the unmasked affection from seeping into his voice, when he quietly speaks again: “Come to bed, you daft tit.”

 

And it is hours later, when he wakes and finds Sherlock is still right where he was when they both slipped into a nervous slumber. He stares at the long elegant arch of Sherlock’s back and shoulders, listens to the quiet hums leaving his best friend’s lips.

Everything is still so new and fresh and delicate. But, somehow, John feels like this- this right here- has been in the making for several years. That everything they went through ultimately lead to them being right here, next to each other, in the early hours in the morning.

It’s still far from the sexy bed-sharing arrangement Jonathan and Bobby imagined, but, John thinks to himself, it’s definitely a step in the right direction. He falls back asleep with a smile on his face.

Tomorrow, they’ll be home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me go, slaying those weekly updates; YES Honeys!

**Author's Note:**

> Hasn't posted for almost half a year, returns with a fic nobody asked for #badassalertoverhere
> 
> If you like it, leave a comment, a bookmark, or some kudos to let me know. Your feedback makes my day <3  
> See you soon for another update, hennys! Remember to stay fabulous <3
> 
> UPDATE: It has been brought to my attention that my old title "Queer Eye: Johnlock edition" had already been taken up by another fic. Supporting other creators and valuing their creativity is important to me, this is why I changed my title.


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